


Sir

by orphan_account



Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF, Hatari - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, dom!Matthias, sub/dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 19:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21082118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Matthías likes it when you call him sir...





	Sir

Matthías, as always, stands over you, arms folded and eyes glaring. They’re like ice - his eyes - frozen in that permanent expression of distaste, only melting with lust once in a while. It’s only now that his face shows expression other than blankness, one brow raised and his lips twitching with a slight smirk.

“What did you just call me?” he hums, voice deep and husky.

You’re kneeling before him, hands bound behind your back with a thin rope, the roughness of which rubbing against your wrists in a way that is not so painful, rather, pleasurable. Sucking in a deep breath, you raise your eyes to him once more, hoping to work out his mood from his expression alone. 

Alas, the smirk has been wiped away, replaced by a hard line of disapproval. Without thinking you find yourself biting your lip as you look up at him, making him narrow his eyes into slits of brilliant blue.

“Stop that,” he snarls, “Repeat what you just called me,”

Swallowing down the bubble that rises in your throat you blink.  _ You hadn’t meant to say that out loud. _

“Sir,” you murmur, your voice barely loud enough to be heard over the static hum of the overhead light.

Before you had begged for his touch, begged for the feel of his hands tracing the contours of your skin, begged for the heat of his gaze on your bare body - yet now you shy away from it, feeling tiny under that cold gaze of his.

“I didn’t quite catch that, sweetheart, do you want to repeat it again?” he asks, the sharp tone of his voice telling you it’s not a request. It’s an order. 

Again you swallow, silently praying that you haven’t angered him in some way, or made him uncomfortable, but as you repeat the words again a flicker of something passes across his face, his features slackening if only for a second. It’s then that you realise what it is:  _ pleasure _ .

“Again,” he orders, one hand outreached in a promise of a reward if you obey.

Normally, you might snap out a retort, and risk the punishment for your own satisfaction, but your words are making him visibly unhinged for the first time. You can’t lose that advantage over him.

“ _ Sir _ ,” you repeat, eeking out the syllable until it’s practically a moan. 

In return his hand sinks into your hair, stroking at your scalp with enough pressure to make it pleasurable. Eventually his hands find their way to either side of your head, tilting you up to face him as he steps closer, so close you can almost smell the sweat on him.

“What do you want me to do, love?” he asks, for once, giving you the control. Even now his voice is huskier than usual, a clear sign of his waning restraint.

“Everything,” you reply, blushing a little at the thought of telling him  _ exactly  _ what you’ve dreamt of.

“Oh?” he raises one brow, looking down at you with a slight smirk, “Everything?”

“Yes sir, everything,” you wiggle a little in his grip, his fingers digging in just a little too much into your cheeks.

The moment those words leave your mouth he steps away, turning his back on you to stare at the wall, as if to regain his composure again. Ah, you’ve got him now. You remain in silence for some time, Matthías pacing the floor before you with only occasional glances your way. Maybe he’s wondering what he’ll do to you first, sorting through his endless ideas to find what will make you scream the most. Maybe he’s calming himself down. 

“You want everything?” he turns back to you, eyes darker, voice thick with desire - even his accent seems stronger.

“Everything,” you clarify, sucking in a breath as he crosses the gap between the two of you in less than two steps, his fingers wrapping around your chin and tilting your head up once more. His eyes are merciless, blank,  _ dark _ . You’ve snapped something in him, and you’re about to find out what it is.

“You’ll have to work for it,” he lets go of you abruptly, stepping back only to loosen the belt on his trousers, “Come here then,”

With your hands bound behind your back you have no choice but to shuffle on your knees to him, fully aware of the wide smirk he wears freely on his face at the sight of you. Once there you get to work, taking him in your mouth without anymore prompting and getting to work - and still he remains staring at you, eyes harsh.

“Good, good,” he purrs, hands festooning themselves in your hair to help you move, “You’d do anything, wouldn’t you?”

With your mouth full of him you can’t exactly reply, but you hope the noise you make deep in your throat is enough to confirm your answer:  _ yes _ . You would do anything, if only to receive everything in return.

Eventually, with the workings of your tongue and mouth around him, Matthías begins to shudder and twitch, taking himself right to the edge before he pulls away. Denying himself the release he so desperately wants. By now your knees are sore, and it takes all your restraint not to beg him to release you so you can stretch out the threatening cramp, but it seems Matthías has other ideas.

Like a hunter stalks his prey, Matthías steps towards you, hands placed on your shoulders to hold you steady as he leans down, first pressing a kiss to the top of your head, then to your lips. As he does so, you feel his weight shift, and open your eyes to find him kneeling before you, still taller and imposing, but kneeling nonetheless.

Up close his eyes are like steel, unyielding and and dripping with desire. His breath fans across your face, hot and cold all at once, and his hands trail down your sides, then across your back, eventually untying you with those nimble fingers of his.

With the rope discarded he pushes you backwards, licking his lips at the sight of you. 

“Turn around, and stay on your knees,” he orders, voice blank and plain.

The dark shadows in his eyes compel you to obey, but first:

“Yes, sir,” you confirm, revelling in the look of utter enjoyment that passes his face before you do as told.

Behind you, he practically growls as one hand threads through your hair, the other going to your trousers to pull them down. Ah, this is going to be good.


End file.
